 | Monmouth A Tragedy |  |
1
Act The First.
Lady Henrietta Wentworth.
(Scene: a neglected room in an old house on the Thames, London.)I.
Henrietta.
Is this the way my dreary life shall end,
In sorrow heaped on sorrow, woe on woe?
How have I sinned that God should plague me thus?
I am perplexed and puzzled. If we sinned,
When we had prayed to God to show us how
We were awrong, why did no voice reply,
Why was no answer giv'n? Or, if 'twas right
Why do I doubt and struggle in my mind,
Attacking and defending, putting forth
All subtleties of word and argument
On this side and on that?
In sorrow heaped on sorrow, woe on woe?
How have I sinned that God should plague me thus?
I am perplexed and puzzled. If we sinned,
When we had prayed to God to show us how
We were awrong, why did no voice reply,
Why was no answer giv'n? Or, if 'twas right
Why do I doubt and struggle in my mind,
Attacking and defending, putting forth
All subtleties of word and argument
On this side and on that?
The very house
Preaches all day to mine unwilling ears.
I do not know—I cannot somehow think
That all these woes were sent on me for naught.
Those eighteen men, indeed, on whom the tower
Brought thunderous death, while God was still on earth—
Well—it was true enough for them perhaps;
But not for me: I see that clear enough.
Those very drops, that in the recent rains,
Fell, with a long splash from the leaky roof
And rankled by my bedside, in a pool
And, like an acid, ate the rotten floor—
Those very drops were accusations.
Preaches all day to mine unwilling ears.
2
That all these woes were sent on me for naught.
Those eighteen men, indeed, on whom the tower
Brought thunderous death, while God was still on earth—
Well—it was true enough for them perhaps;
But not for me: I see that clear enough.
Those very drops, that in the recent rains,
Fell, with a long splash from the leaky roof
And rankled by my bedside, in a pool
And, like an acid, ate the rotten floor—
Those very drops were accusations.
Still,
I do not understand it, cannot see
How all these things should come upon me so
For something God was asked to speak about.
I asked him purely, meant to take his will,
And, by whatever struggle, make it mine.
Is God so careless of the souls of men?
How easy had it been for him to speak?
I waited—waited—prayed and searched in vain.
That very morning, ere the dew was dry,
I stole across the coppice to the park;
And there I watched the streamlet's little pool:
A turn it takes—the little rivulet—
Splashing, in tiny thunder, on the stones,
And pouring summer cataracts of spray
Down pigmy, moss-grown, water-hollowed cliffs:
Then, on the pool below, 'mong rush and sedge
And fresh green forests of the meadow grass,
Float bubbles on its surface. There I stopped,
And searching there for omens in the brook
As in the wind blown leaves and all things else,
I fell to counting bubbles. One and two,
And so on up to sev'n and then to eight;
But niether nine to ten. Two bubbles! Aye,
If I am wrong, God let me drift to sin
For want of such a thing? Can this be true?
Were two mens-souls not worth two globes of air,
Sealed up in rain-bow domes of water? Still,
I cannot grow at ease about this thing.
Was I in earnest seeking for the sign?
Did I not see one and refuse to see?
Perhaps it was so. Only can this be?
Can one tell lies to cheat oneself withal?
I do not, cannot—there is something wrong—
I leave this to philosophers and priests.
All I can feel is Monmouth's deadly peril.
O God! if it was my fault, pardon him!
I bear the blame of it: I urged him on.
Thou wilt not slay him? Lord, he thought it right:
Thou hads't deceived him—I, I mean, had done't.
O this is impious to doubt the Lord.
It cannot be that we have sinned in this:
It is accusing God.
I do not understand it, cannot see
How all these things should come upon me so
For something God was asked to speak about.
I asked him purely, meant to take his will,
And, by whatever struggle, make it mine.
Is God so careless of the souls of men?
How easy had it been for him to speak?
I waited—waited—prayed and searched in vain.
That very morning, ere the dew was dry,
I stole across the coppice to the park;
And there I watched the streamlet's little pool:
3
Splashing, in tiny thunder, on the stones,
And pouring summer cataracts of spray
Down pigmy, moss-grown, water-hollowed cliffs:
Then, on the pool below, 'mong rush and sedge
And fresh green forests of the meadow grass,
Float bubbles on its surface. There I stopped,
And searching there for omens in the brook
As in the wind blown leaves and all things else,
I fell to counting bubbles. One and two,
And so on up to sev'n and then to eight;
But niether nine to ten. Two bubbles! Aye,
If I am wrong, God let me drift to sin
For want of such a thing? Can this be true?
Were two mens-souls not worth two globes of air,
Sealed up in rain-bow domes of water? Still,
I cannot grow at ease about this thing.
Was I in earnest seeking for the sign?
Did I not see one and refuse to see?
Perhaps it was so. Only can this be?
Can one tell lies to cheat oneself withal?
I do not, cannot—there is something wrong—
I leave this to philosophers and priests.
4
O God! if it was my fault, pardon him!
I bear the blame of it: I urged him on.
Thou wilt not slay him? Lord, he thought it right:
Thou hads't deceived him—I, I mean, had done't.
O this is impious to doubt the Lord.
It cannot be that we have sinned in this:
It is accusing God.
And yet, his wife—
I cannot pass by that: it is too hard.
O how she must have wept and pined alone.
She must have love'd him, could not choose but love;
And yet, methinks, if she had loved him much
He had not left her for the first fair face
And plunged into the sin I took him from.
Could that be evil which so bettered him?
And then we prayed to thee.
I cannot pass by that: it is too hard.
O how she must have wept and pined alone.
She must have love'd him, could not choose but love;
And yet, methinks, if she had loved him much
He had not left her for the first fair face
And plunged into the sin I took him from.
Could that be evil which so bettered him?
And then we prayed to thee.
But what do I,
Thus grieving selfishly on selfish griefs?
She suffers too and suffers worse than I—
She, robbed of him and left alone to pine.
I think I will go forth and visit her,
And pray her to forgive me all my wrong,
And we could weep together. Wherefore not?
Both love him and the axe is o'er his neck:
Is that a time for petty jealousies?
Tis well enough for me who dealt the blow
And reaped a life-time's pleasure from her grief
To act forgiveness; but for her?—I fear
That she would drive me forth with scorn and wrath:
I think I know what name she gives to me.
And has she not a right to hate me sore?
Ah! what a bitter life must hers have been!
And it was I who robbed and stripped that life
Of all the gilding love would paint it with,
And left her lonely, loveless, scorned by all,
To learn how weak was he—and I, how bad.
O it was sinful!
Thus grieving selfishly on selfish griefs?
She suffers too and suffers worse than I—
She, robbed of him and left alone to pine.
I think I will go forth and visit her,
And pray her to forgive me all my wrong,
5
Both love him and the axe is o'er his neck:
Is that a time for petty jealousies?
Tis well enough for me who dealt the blow
And reaped a life-time's pleasure from her grief
To act forgiveness; but for her?—I fear
That she would drive me forth with scorn and wrath:
I think I know what name she gives to me.
And has she not a right to hate me sore?
Ah! what a bitter life must hers have been!
And it was I who robbed and stripped that life
Of all the gilding love would paint it with,
And left her lonely, loveless, scorned by all,
To learn how weak was he—and I, how bad.
O it was sinful!
But the prayer, the prayer!
God would have answered us had it been wrong:
God must have answered us!
But here comes Jerome, lately Monmouth's groom.
What further news can he have brought me? Nay—
I will not think it is a pardon yet
Lest disappointment come to blast my joy.
God would have answered us had it been wrong:
God must have answered us!
But here comes Jerome, lately Monmouth's groom.
What further news can he have brought me? Nay—
I will not think it is a pardon yet
Lest disappointment come to blast my joy.
6
II.
Martha, Jerome.Martha.
Aye, is it so indeed? he begged his life?
Jerome.
Nay, worse than that. He sprawled upon the ground,
Kissed James's feet and piteously wept,
Offered to change his faith and join the ranks
Of scarlet Babylon. All men are wroth.
Martha.
But, hark ye, Jerome, when you told it her,
How did she bear it? Was she not aghast?
Did she not faint? Or weep aloud?
Jerome.
Not she.
She turned as pale and stately as a man
Hard-stricken to the heart; but that was all.
Stay, here she comes.
(As Henrietta enters, exit Jerome.)
Henrietta.
Come here, good Martha. So: now sit we down.
7
Is not the morning lovely, Lady, look,
Do you recall—
Henrietta.
I neither see nor wish.
As I came in, I saw old Jerome go.
What was he saying to you, Martha? What?
You will not answer? Ah, you blush, my child.
What pretty hair you have—as soft as silk:
So, let me smooth it. He was telling you
That Monmouth prayed his life?
Martha.
My Lady, yes.
Henrietta.
And what thought you of all he told you, then?
Martha.
I thought that James must be a cruel King
Not to have pardoned him upon the spot;
But that, for certain, he was not so bad
As let his nephew die—so fair a man.
Henrietta.
Nay girl, that is not what I mean: I ask,
Not what you thought of the usurper James,
8
You do not wish to speak: you judge him hard.
Martha.
God knows, my lady—
Henrietta.
Aye; and I know too:
I know, and God, that you think ill of him.
But hearken child, and I will tell you all
And show you wherefore he did this and that
And why you should not blame him. 'Twas not fear
That made him beg ignoble life from James:
It was for me he did it. Ere he left,
I said to him, a-thinking in my heart
That he might be incautious in the fight
Or risk untimely capture from stray horse,
That I had driven him onward to this deed,
And added: “Therefore for my sake, my love,
Be not too rash and see and save thy life,
Lest I should hold me guilty of your blood.”
Martha.
How could my lady think of such a thing?
'Twas he, not you, that had a throne to gain:
'Twas he, not you, that fixed upon the deed.
9
But then he thought that I would think, my child—
Martha.
More shame to him to have such evil thoughts!
Henrietta.
But, Martha, I had told him so myself.
Martha.
True; yet I think—
Henrietta
(vehementer.)
And who cares what you think?
What right have you to cast a meddling word,
And drop more gall into a bitter cup?
Martha.
I did but answer when my lady asked.
Henrietta.
Aye; so you did. Forgive me then, good lass;
For I am vexed and peevish; and a seed,
Beneath a heap of beds, would drive me mad,
So sharp and captious have I grown of late.
But you are silly, child: you do not see
That it was noble in him, so to act,
Not mean and cowardly, but great of heart
And full of kindly complaisance for me.
10
I take your answer. Now go forth, my child:
Help Jerome with the housework: leave me here.
(Exit Martha.)
Thank Heaven she is gone! I cannot play
So intricate a part, nor feign to love
Deeds I can only sneer upon and hate.
O Monmouth! Monmouth! could it be indeed
That it was you who grovelled for your life?
Like mincing Agag, tripping to the King:
“Surely the bitterness of death is passed.”
But I can pardon Monmouth that: for me,
For his great love, to save me greater woe,
He begged dishonoured life from cruel James.
Aye, I can pardon that: the other count
Was blacker; for she went to visit him—
His injured wife, the wife that he had left—
She went, forgiveness in her heart, to him
Who had embittered all her weary life;
And what did he? So cold, so icy cold!
How could he treat her so, how turn his back
And shoulder her aside as he has done,
Coarsely unmindful of the pain he gave?
11
I do believe, had it been I he scorned,
My heart had broke within me at his words.
And I had fall'n before him, at his feet.
Small hearts, I know, when they have injured once,
For very shame go on to injure more;
But Monmouth's heart was noble: noble hearts
In such abaisements find their highest pride,
And know that the admission of a fault
Wipes half the crime away.
I fear that this same guilty love of ours
Has eaten good things from his heart and left
A windy void, for evil love and fear
To wrestle in and drive the man about
Like staggering vessels under veering gusts
That blow, and shift, and pause, and blow again
And whip white spray upon the plunging decks.
And yet the prayer, the prayer! 'Tis always so:
The knotted fabric of my dusky dreams
Is always streaked with that sad prayer of mine,
As with a thread of fire.
It seems to me
That I should find an answer even yet.
12
And ope the bible at hap-hazard—Ah!
The answer has arrived! Did we suppose
That God would rend the knitted arch of sky
And thunder trumpet-words for such as us?
The answer has been spoken ages back:
For us, it lurked in dusty manuscripts
Pent in some worm-gnawn convent library—
To gather novel force and breathe again,
As if with second life, to crush our dreams.
Our Lord himself has answered our demand:
“The wicked and adulterous seek a sign.”
O Lord, we sought one and Thou hast not sent!
If he es-capes, I have made up my mind:
I shall not see him more: this evil love,
Guilty and criminal, has gnawed the life
From all the manhood of a noble soul—
Is that not sign enough to flee from him?
How has it's pleasure turned to woe and pain
And the sharp sting of many a bitter blush!
(Enter Michael Lambourne.)
Ah! you are welcome, Master Lambourne. News?
Not, let me trust, such evil tales as last:
13
Lambourne.
No, madam: still we trust that all is well.
Henrietta.
I fear that you but trifle with my woe
From some mistaken kindness. Hear me now:
Speak out whatever doubts or fears you have
And do not teach me into empty hopes,
Like some mad flow'ret, lured by southern winds,
To blossom forth before the snows are gone.
O think, good Master Lambourne, think awhile
And do not hurry into empty words.
I tell you, sir, if he be slain, for me
There is no refuge nearer than the tomb.
Lambourne.
Madam—I cannot tell you how I feel—
I—I—my heart is sore to hear you thus!
Henrietta.
No: do not spare me now whilst I am strong.
And let the whole weight fall on me at once.
Speak out, I pray you.
Lambourne.
Sure as I am here,
14
This is no idle word to save you grief:
I speak as I believe—nay, as I know.
Henrietta.
What! you are certain Monmouth will escape!
Lambourne.
Can I say more than I have said?
Henrietta.
Ah me!
If this be so, it clearly proves me wrong:
God would not bless the vicious thus, I think.
Lambourne.
I beg your pardon? Surely you remarked?
Henrietta.
My mind was wandering: I am now so glad
That all the tissue of unwholesome doubt
That gathered, cobweb-like, about my soul
Have melted off. You do not think, do you,
That God can help the wicked?
Lambourne.
Job would seem—
Henrietta.
Stay now I think me, I am wrong perhaps.
15
He will not be—emprisoned? eh?—for life?
You will not say so? O that changes all!
Lambourne.
He will be sitting by you here, I hope
Before the next day's sun is down, unless—
Henrietta.
O thank you sir! How light you make my heart!
But what does that mean—monitor ‘unless’?
Lambourne.
Nay, something that will make you gladder still.
You know how sadly you complained to me
And to the other gentlemen you saw
Of the unwholesome lodgement giv'n you here?
Well, we have found another: we have found
A grand old house some twenty miles from this:
A house beside a river, where long meads
Fruit heavy grass among the rippleing waves
And just flower loaded headlands in the stream:
Between the house and stream, a narrow belt,
Lies a bright garden, flanked on either hand
[OMITTED]
17
I must be gone and get me ready sir.
Lambourne.
Stay for one moment, madam—only stay.
Henrietta.
More business still? You are exigeant, sir;
So 'tis with most folk: give them but the inch;
And straightway they demand the ell of right.
Lambourne.
'Tis scarce on business this time—only—I—
Henrietta.
Why do you stop and hesitate? Speak out:
I shall not blame you for a clumsy speech.
Take heart, sir; and whatever you may want,
Believe me, my best services are yours.
Lambourne.
Only, my Lady—I am—I shall not—
I shall not see you any more.
Henrietta.
A very awful subject of complaint!
But I am sorry, sir: you have been kind
I hope 'tis not your complaisance for us
That makes the land too hot for you to stay.
Is it a journey you are going on?
18
The longest, lady.
Henrietta.
What, are you unwell?
I feared before that you were not aright.
It is a shame to keep you standing here.
Go home, and if you want, in coin or work
Or anything my grattitude can give,
Believe me it is yours. I think I heard
You had a widdowed mother still alive?
Go home: bethink you, you have her to keep.
Lambourne.
I thank you, Lady: you are kindness' self.
But I—I almost thought—I have forgot—
Save there is something I forgot to tell!
Henrietta.
It must stand over: do not grieve for that.
Lambourne.
Good day.
(Goes to the door, pauses and then returns.)
Is there not something I have left behind?
Ah no! Tis nothing. Lady fare thee well!
(Exit.
19
With what a tragic air our scriv'ner spake!
And how he looked! His eyes pursue me still:
He looked so sadly, fixedly on me.
As though he sought to learn my face by heart
And make a stealthy portrait some time else.
And then he is so like to Monmouth: half,
I doubt if I could see the twain at once
And label each one rightly. How is this?
My glove?—my glove? Why he has ta'en my glove!
(End of Act The First.)
| Monmouth A Tragedy | |